"Gone!"
Jones kept saying to himself that he must strive to be calm, to think,
think. Despite all his warnings, the warnings of Norton, she had
tricked them and run away. It was maddening. He wanted to rave, tear
his hair, break things. He tramped the hall. It would be wasting time
to send for the police. They would only putter about fruitlessly. The
Black Hundred knew how to arrange these abductions.
How had they succeeded in doing it? No one had entered the house that
day without his being present. There had been no telephone call he had
not heard the gist of, nor any letters he had not first glanced over.
How had they done it? Suddenly into his mind flashed the remembrance
of the candle-light under Florence's door the night before. In a dozen
bounds he was in her room, searching drawers, paper boxes, baskets. He
found nothing. He returned in despair to Susan, who, during all this
turmoil, had sat as if frozen in her chair.
"Speak!" he cried. "For God's sake, say something, think something!
Those devils are likely to torture her, hurt, her!" He leaned against
the wall, his head on his arm.
When he turned again he was calm. He walked with bent head toward the
door, opened it and stood upon the threshold for a space. Across the
street a shadow stirred, but Jones did not see it. His gaze was
attracted by something which shone dimly white on the walk just beyond
the steps. He ran to it. A crumpled letter, unaddressed. He carried
it back to the house, smoothed it out and read, its contents. Florence
in her haste had dropped the letter.
He clutched at his hat, put it on and ran to Susan.
"Here!" he cried, holding out an automatic. "If any one comes in that
you don't know, shoot! Don't ask questions, shoot!"
"I'm afraid!" She breathed with difficulty.
"Afraid?" he roared at her. He put the weapon in her hand. It slipped
and thudded to the floor. He stooped for it and slammed it into her
lap. "You love your life and honor. You'll know how to shoot when the
time comes. Now, attend to me. If I'm not back here by ten o'clock,
turn this note over to the police. If you can't do that, then God help
us all!" And with that he ran from the house.
Susan eyed the revolver with growing terror. For what had she left the
peace and quiet of Miss Farlow's; assassination, robbery, thieves and
kidnapers? She wanted to shriek, but her throat was as dry as paper.
Gingerly she touched the pistol. The cold steel sent a thrill of fear
over her. He hadn't told her how to shoot it!
Two blocks down the street, up an alley, was the garage wherein
Hargreave had been wont to keep his car. Toward this Jones ran with
the speed of a track athlete. There might be half a dozen taxicabs
about, but he would not run the risk of engaging any of them. The
Black Hundred was capable of anticipating his every movement.
The shadow across the street stood undecided. At length he concluded
to give Jones ten minutes in which to return. If he did not return in
that time, the watcher would go up to the drug store and telephone for
instructions.
But Jones did not come back.
"Where's Howard?" he demanded.
"Hello, Jones; what's up?"
"Howard, get that car out at once."
"Out she comes. Wait till I give her radiator a bucket of water.
Gee!" whispered Howard, whom Hargreave often used as his chauffeur,
"get on to his nibs! First time I ever saw him awake. I wonder what's
doing? You never know what's back of those mummy-faced head
waiters.... All right, Jones!"
The chauffeur jumped into the car and Jones took the seat beside him.
"Where to?"
"Number 78..." and the rest of it trailed away, smothered in the
violent thunder of the big six's engines.
During the car's flight several policemen hailed it without success.
Down this street, up that, round this corner, fifty miles an hour; and
all the while Jones shouted: "Faster, faster!"
Within twelve minutes from the time it left the garage, the car stopped
opposite 78 Grove Street, and Jones got out.
"Wait here, Howard. If several men come rushing out, or I don't appear
within ten minutes, fire your gun a couple of times for the police. I
don't want them if we can manage without. They'd only bungle."
"All right, Mr. Jones," said the chauffeur. He had, in the past
quarter of an hour, acquired a deep and lasting respect for the butler
chap. He was a regular fellow, for all his brass buttons.
As Jones reached the curb, Florence came forth as if on invisible
wings. Jones caught her by the arm. She flung him aside with a
strength he had not dreamed existed in her slim body.
"Florence, I am Jones!"
She stopped, recognized him, and without a word ran across the street
to the automobile and climbed into the tonneau. Jones followed
immediately.
"Home!"
The car shot up the dimly lighted street, shone palely for a second
under the corner lamp, and vanished.
"Ah, child, child!" groaned the man at her side, all the tenseness gone
from his body. He was Jones again.
Still she did not speak, but stared ahead with unseeing eyes.
No further reproach fell from the butler's lips. It was enough that
God had guided him to her at the appointed moment. He felt assured
that never again would she be drawn into any trap. Poor child! What
had they said to her, done to her? How, in God's name, had she escaped
from them who never let anybody escape? Presently she would become
normal, and then she would tell him.
"I found the lying note. You dropped it."
"Horrible, horrible!" she said almost inaudibly.
"What did they do to you?"
"He said he was my father.... He put his arms around me.... And I
knew!"
"Knew what?"
"That he lied. I can't explain."
"Don't try!"
Suddenly she laid her head against the butler's shoulder and cried. It
was terrible to hear youth weep in this fashion. Jones put his arm
about her and tried to console her.
"Horrible!" she murmured between the violent hiccoughs. "I was wrong,
wrong! Forgive me!"
Unconsciously the arm sustaining her drew her closer.
"Never mind," he consoled. "Tell no one what has happened. Go about
as usual. Don't let even Susan know. Whatever your poor father did
was for your sake. He wanted you to be happy, without a care in the
world."
"I promise." And gradually the sobs ceased. "But I feel so old,
Jones, so very old. I threw over the lamp. I threw a chair through
the window. They thought that it was I who had jumped out. That gave
me the necessary time. I don't understand how I did it. I wasn't
frightened at all till I gained the street."
They found Susan still seated in the chair, the automatic in her lap.
She had not moved in all this time!
Braine paced the apartment of the Countess Perigoff. From the living
room to the boudoir and back, fully twenty times. From the divan Olga
watched him nervously. He was like a tiger, fresh in captivity. All
at once he paused in front of her.
"Do you realize what that mere chit did?"
"I do."
"Planned to the minute. We had her; seven of us; doors locked, and all
that. No weeping, no wailing; I could not understand then, but I do
now. It's in the blood. Hargreave was as peaceful as a St. Bernard
dog till you cornered him, and then he was a lion. Oh, the devil!
Slipped out of our fingers like an eel. And across the street, Jones
in a racer! I never paid any particular attention to Jones, but from
now on I shall. The girl may or may not know where the money is, but
Jones does, Jones does! Two men shall watch. Felton on the street and
Orloff from the windows of the deserted house. With opera glasses he
will be able to take note of all that happens in the house during the
day. He will be able to see the girl's room. And that's the important
point. It was a good plan, little woman; and it would have been plain
sailing if only we had remembered that the girl was Hargreave's
daughter. Be very careful hereafter when you call on her. A night
like this will have made her suspicious of every one. Our hope lies
with you. Anything on your mind?"
"Yes. Why not insert a personal in the _Herald_?" She drew some
writing paper toward her and scribbled a few words.
He read: "Florence--the hiding place is discovered. Remove it to a
more secret spot at once. S.H."--He laughed and shook his head. "I'm
afraid that will never do."
[Illustration: HE READ ... FLORENCE ... THE HIDING-PLACE IS DISCOVERED]
"If she reads it, Jones will. The man with the opera glasses may see
something. There's a chance Jones might become worried."
"Well, we'll give it a chance."
It was midnight when he made his departure. As he stepped into the
street, he glanced about cautiously. On the corner he saw a policeman
swinging his night stick. Otherwise the street was deserted. Braine
proceeded jauntily down the street.
And yet, from the darkened doors of the house across the way, the
figure of a man emerged and stood contemplating the windows of the
Perigoff apartment. Suddenly the lights went out. The watcher made no
effort to follow Braine. The knowledge he was after did not
necessitate any such procedure.
Of course, Florence read the "personal." She took the newspaper at
once to Jones, who smiled grimly.
"You see, I trust you."
"And so long as you continue to trust me no harm will befall you. You
were left in my care by your father. I am to guard you at the expense
of my life. Last night's affair was a miracle. The next time you will
not find it so easy to escape."
Nor did she.
"There will be no next time," gravely. "But I am going to ask you a
direct question. Is my father alive?"
The butler's brow puckered. "I have promised to say nothing, one way
or the other."
She laughed.
"Why do you laugh?"
"I laugh because if he were dead there would be no earthly reason for
your not saying so at once. But I hate money, the name of it, the
sound of it, the sight of it. It is at the bottom of all wars and
crimes. I despise it!"
"The root of all evil. Yet it performs many noble deeds. But never
mind the money. Let us give our attention to this personal. Doubtless
it originated in the same mind which conceived the letter. Your father
would never have inserted such a personal. What! Give his enemies a
chance to learn his secret? No. On the other hand, I want you to show
this personal to all you meet to-day, Susan, the reporter, to
everybody. Talk about it. Say that you wonder what you shall do.
Trust no one with your real thoughts."
"Not even you, Mr. Jones," thought the girl as she nodded.
"And tell them that you showed it to me and that I appeared worried."
That night there was a meeting of the organization called the Black
Hundred. Braine asked if any one knew what the Hargreave butler looked
like.
[Illustration: THAT NIGHT THERE WAS A MEETING OF THE ORGANIZATION]
"I had a glimpse of him the other night; but being unprepared, I might
not recognize him again."
Vroon described Jones minutely. Braine could almost see the portrait.
"Vroon, that memory of yours is worth a lot of money," was his only
comment.
"I hope it will be worth more soon."
"I believe I'll be able to recognize Mr. Jones if I see him. Who is he
and what is he?"
"He has been with Hargreave for fourteen years. There was a homicidal
case in which Jones was active. Hargreave saved him. He is faithful
and uncommunicative. Money will not touch him. If he does know where
that million is, hot irons could not make him own up to it. The only
way is to watch him, follow him, wait for the moment when he'll grow
careless. No man is always on his mettle; he lets up sooner or later."
"He is being watched, as you know."
Vroon nodded approvingly. "The captain of the tramp steamer _Orient_,
by the way, was seen with a roll of money. He was in one of the
water-front saloons, bragging how he had hoodwinked some one."
"Did he say where he'd got the cash?" asked Braine.
"They tried to pump him on that, but he shut up. Well, we have agreed
that Felton shall watch from the street and Orloff from the window.
Orloff will whistle if he sees Jones removing anything from any of the
rooms. The rest will be left to Felton."
"And, Felton, my friend," said Braine softly--he always spoke softly
when he was in a deadly humor--"Felton, you slept on duty the other
night. Hargreave stole up, consulted Jones, and got away after
knocking me down. The next failure will mean short shift. Be warned!"
"I saw only you, sir. So help me. I was not asleep. I saw you run
down the street after the taxicab. I did not see any one else."
Braine shrugged. "Remember what I said."
Felton bowed respectfully and made his exit. He wished in his soul
that he might some day catch the master mind free of his eternal mask.
It was an iron hand which ruled them and there were friends of his
(Felton's) who had mysteriously vanished after a brief period of
rebellion. The boss was a swell; probably belonged to clubs and
society which he adroitly pilfered. The organization always had money.
Whenever there was a desperate job to be undertaken, Vroon simply
poured out the money necessary to promote it. Whenever Braine and
Vroon became engaged in earnest conversation they talked Slav. Braine
was never called by name here; the boss, simply that.
Well, ten per cent. of a million was a hundred thousand. This would be
equally divided between the second ten of the Black Hundred. Another
ten per cent. would go to eighty members; the balance would be divided
between Vroon and the boss. But his soul rebelled at being ordered
about like so much dirt under another man's feet. He would take his
ten thousand and make the grand getaway.
The next afternoon the countess called upon Florence. Nothing was said
about the adventure, and this fact created a vague unrest in the
scheming woman's mind. She realized that she must play her cards more
carefully than ever. Not the least distrust must be permitted to enter
the child's head. Once that happened good-by to the wonderful
emeralds. Was it that she really craved the stone? Was it not rather
a venom acquired from the knowledge that this child's mother had won
what she herself, with all her cleverness, was not sure of--Braine's
love? Did he really care for her or was she only the cats-paw to pluck
his hot chestnuts from the fire?
When Florence showed her the "personal," her vague doubts became
instantly dissipated. The child would not have shown her the newspaper
had there been any distrust on her part.
"My child, your father is alive, then?" animatedly.
"We don't know," sadly.
"Why, I should say that this proves it."
"On the contrary, it proves nothing of the sort, since I have yet to
discover a treasure in this house. I have hunted in every nook,
drawer; I've searched for panels, looked in trunks for false bottoms.
Nothing, nothing! Ah, if I could only find it!"
"And what would you do with it?"
"Take it at once to some bank and offer the whole of it for the safe
return of my father, every penny of it. I don't know what to do, which
way to turn," tears gathering in her eyes and they were genuine tears,
too. "There are millions in stocks and bonds and I can not touch a
penny of it because the legal documents have not been found. I can't
even prove that I am his daughter, except for half an old bracelet, and
my father's lawyers say that that would not hold in any court."
"You were born in St. Petersburg, my dear. Have the embassy there look
up the birth registers."
"That would not put me into possession. Nothing but the return of my
father will avail me. And there's a horrible thought always of my not
being his real daughter."
"There's no doubt in my mind. I have only to recall Katrina's face to
know whose child you are. But what will you live on?" Here was a far
greater mixup than she had calculated upon. Supposing after all it was
only a resemblance, that the child was not Hargreave's, a substitute
just to blind the Black Hundred? To keep them away from the true
daughter? Her mind grew bewildered over such possibilities. The
single and only way to settle all doubts was to make this child a
prisoner. If she was Hargreave's true daughter he would come out of
his hiding.
She heard Florence answering her question: "There is a sum of ten or
twelve thousand in the Riverdale bank, under the control of my father's
butler. After that is gone, I don't know what will happen to us, Susan
and me."
"The door of Miss Farlow's will always be open to you, Florence,"
replied Susan, with love in her eyes.
This interesting conversation was interrupted by the advent of Norton.
He was always dropping in during the late afternoon hours. Florence
liked him for two reasons. One was that Jones trusted him to a certain
extent and the other was that ... that she liked him. She finished
this sentence in her heart defiantly.
To-day he brought her a box of beautiful roses, and at the sight of
them the countess smiled faintly. Set the wind in that quarter? She
could have laughed. Here was her revenge against this meddler who took
no particular notice of her while Florence was in the room. She would
encourage him, poor grubbing newspaper writer, with his beggarly
pittance! What chance had he of marrying this girl with millions
within reach of her hand?
The peculiar thing about this was that Norton was entertaining the same
thought at the same time: what earthly chance had he?
In the second-story window of the house over the way there was a
worried man. But when his glasses brought in range the true contents
of the box he laughed sardonically. "This watching is getting my goat.
I smell a rat every time I see a shadow." He wiped the lenses of his
opera glasses and proceeded to roll a cigarette.
When the countess and Norton went away Jones stole quietly up to
Florence's room and threw up the curtain. Two round points of light
flashed from the watcher's window, but the saturnine smile on Jones'
lips was not observed. He went to the door, opened it cautiously, a
hand to his ear. Then he closed the door, turned back the rug and
removed a section of the flooring. Out of this cavity he raised a box.
There was lettering on the lid; in fact, the name of its owner, Stanley
Hargreave. Jones replaced the flooring, tucked the box under his arm
and made his exit.
The man lounging in the shadow heard a faint whistle. It was the
signal agreed upon. The man Felton ran across the street and boldly
rang the bell. It was only then that Florence missed the ever present
butler. She hesitated, then sent Susan to the door.
"I must see Mr. Jones upon vitally important business."
"He has gone out," said Susan, and very sensibly closed the door before
Felton's foot succeeded in getting inside.
It was time to act. He ran around to the rear. The ladder convinced
him that Jones had tricked him. He was wild with rage. He was over
the wall in an instant. Away down the back street his eye discovered
his man in full flight. He gave chase. As he came to the first corner
he was nearly knocked over by a man coming the other way.
"Who are you bumping into?" growled Felton.
"Not so fast, Felton!"
"Who the devil are you?"
The stranger made a sign which Felton instantly recognized.
"Quick! What has happened?"
"Jones has the million and is making his getaway. See him hiking
toward the water front?"
The two men began to run.
There followed a thrilling chase. Jones engaged a motorboat and it was
speeding seaward when the two pursuers arrived. They were not laggard.
There was another boat and they made for it.
[Illustration: JONES ENGAGED A MOTOR BOAT]
"A hundred if you overtake that boat," said Felton's strange companion.
Felton eyed him thoughtfully. There was something familiar about that
voice.
Great plumes of water shot up into the air. It did not prove a short
race by any means. It took half an hour for the pursuer to overhaul
the pursued.
"Is that Jones?"
"Yes." Felton fired his revolver into the air in hopes of terrifying
Jones' engineer; but there was five hundred dangling before that
individual's eyes.
"Let them get a little nearer," shouted the butler.
The engineer let down the speed a notch. The other boat crept up
within twenty yards. Jones sought a perfect range. He would have to
find this spot again.
"Surrender!" yelled Felton.
In reply Jones raised the precious box and deliberately dropped it into
the sea. Then he turned his automatic upon his pursuers and succeeded
in setting their boat afire.
All this within the space of an hour. During dinner that night (there
was now a cook) Jones walked about the dining-table, rubbing his hands
together from time to time.
"Jones," said Florence, "why do you rub your hands like that?"
"Was I rubbing my hands, Miss Florence?" he asked innocently.